I almost passed out while shelving books yesterday morning. That was real fun. I had just gotten up from a crouch to find the proper place for some Buddhist commentary or other, and my hand refused to rise any more. I had a strange feeling, as if my body were oscillating back and forth in something like a sine wave. Then I fell backwards and hit the shelf behind me, after which I failed to get a grasp on something and so dropped to my knees and fell sideways, knocking books off the shelving cart.

Something like this happens a few times a day, although I rarely get all the way to the ground because of it. Yes, I think I have anemia.

An open letter to my throat, James.

Dear James,

I'm dreadfully sorry that I fell asleep in the smoking study room, not only for my sake, but for yours as well. I am very glad that you're still alive, and I would do anything to make it up to you. If only you told me your wishes. Why do we not speak more often? One would think it only natural, but alas, you are sadly incommunicative. Perhaps you were trying to say something when you grew that lump this last Tuesday, but I can't quite make it out. Are you angry with me? You should know by now that I don't respond well to violence. Remember those times you got me out of school whenever I wanted by pretending to be infected with strep? And then in the empty house I would eat ice cream for you to make you happy? I wish we might soon return to days like that, if only you could tell me what the lump's about.

Was it friction from the smoke, or your attempt to seal yourself and keep out the harshness of that guy's pipe? Did you raise that bump because you are happy? Is it a cry for more syrupy coffee drinks?

Anyway, I hope you read this. I never meant to offend you. Please come back to me, baby.

Your most dedicated friend, etc.

You know that part in "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" when the voices rise up like wind in a really nasty fight with itself, and there is a beat that no one has named? When the words, that periodically give way to "woo-we" and "woa-ho," send you flopping on the floor no longer searching for completion because that is it right there? That's what I don't feel like. I skipped my classes Monday. That was nice. Around four in the morning the air got close, like it was watching me. Outside was empty except for the dead leaves, all crunchy and wondering why they'd ever grown at all, and there weren't too many of them either. Every cigarette was better than the last. I did some cooking and stared at the walls, which have round corners that flop down from the ceiling like a trench coat hanging close to the floor. Time as measured by the clock passed quickly, but my mind couldn't tell. At times like these I feel like I've been left by people who have no use for me right then but will come by to pick me up when they get the chance. Not much to do but wait.

Then the sun came up around seven, and some dense orange light poured out of a hole in the sky onto the clouds. It looked more like something that ought to be reported along with the weather than it did like a sunrise. I remembered going to the harbor one night in Annapolis to watch the sunrise, but I still can't remember if I was still there when dawn came that day or not.

We don't see very many things from day to day, but we don't notice this. It doesn't occur to us, because we don't ask ourselves if we're doing anything new. If we did we'd be really bored. I want to buy a house in upstate New York with friends and record songs in my basement. They'd all be songs of transport, not the public kind, more like the rapture kind. Anyone want to go? It's cheap up there, I swear, because in upstate New York you don't need to eat. The air brings you all the nutrition you need. If you want tobacco, there's tobacco. You want liquor, so too, there's liquor. The trees are happy to have you up there, they're so fine to everyone that they pay you just to be. Body of water called the Hudson Bay, and also the Hudson River. Your spit freezes before it leaves your mouth, it's great. We don't have to go to Woodstock if you don't want to go to Woodstock, that's all up to you. Don't tell me yes or no right now, just nod if you feel it.

On Sunday I drummed with Tim Kile. We are going to be the best ever death metal band out of Santa Fe, particularly since Tim's songs are not at all like death metal. In fact, he sounds a lot like the Arcade Fire. He has a strong idea of what he wants each instrument to play, and even told me what kind of beats he wanted. This makes for a tense jam, but seeing as he knows his shit, I bow to him.

Oh, and by the way, Tim assumes "Laika" is about a former member of the band, whose last name was Alexander. He was older than the rest, and for a while was the only thing keeping them together. He left eventually in a state of dissolution and anxiety.

Did you know that I'm not particularly liberal? Turns out I'm center-left. The Socialist Party, they're liberal.

Furthermore, did you know the word "liberal" used to be applied to capitalists, the "new men" in the late 19th century who figured out how to make a lot of money out of nothing? Marx used the word to refer to capitalists.

I'm also not progressive, apparantly, because, according to neo-cons, the end result of the Democrats' policies would be a fixed, permament, unchanging social state. It would just stop after a while.

Go figure.